Part 5

Against evidence so flimsy there was a heavy weight of testimony. Was not Gabriel Carew a loving husband and father? No person could dispute it. He loved his wife and child, and they loved him. Was he ever known to commit a cruel act! Never. Was not his purse ever open to the call of charity? Innumerable instances that such was so could be adduced. Could even light acts of rudeness and incivility be laid at his door? What was the worst that could be said of him? That he was not fond of society, that he was a recluse. Could not this be said of hundreds of estimable men, and was it ever put forth as a distinct offence? If he did not himself go into society, did he prevent his wife and child from doing so? On the contrary. He encouraged them to seek amusement which he, a grave man and a student, possibly deemed frivolous. Fond of books, seeking his greatest pleasures in them, was not this distinctly in his favour, and did it not prove him to be of a superior nature to the common herd? The heaviest charge was that which, in conversation with me, he had brought against himself--that on the approach of night his spirits became gloomy. Slight grounds indeed for so serious an accusation as insanity. Madmen were proverbially cunning. Gabriel Carew was the soul of frankness, himself opening up discussions which would tell against him were he not mentally and physically sound and healthy. I began to despair.

These reflections did not all pass through my mind in the silence which followed the conclusion of Mrs. Fortress's statement. They are the summing-up of my thoughts at that time and during my homeward journey. Meanwhile, Mrs. Fortress was waiting patiently for me to put any questions which might occur to me.

"Beyond yourself, Mrs. Fortress," I said, "and your master and mistress, was there no person cognisant with Mrs. Carew's condition?"

"None, sir, with the exception of the foreign doctor."

"Can you tell me his name?"

"I do not know it, but a doctor of his learning would not have been a young man when Mr. Carew consulted him, and it is hardly likely he would be now living."

"True," I said.

"Besides," she added, "his experience of Mrs. Carew could have been but slight. Almost immediately after he gave Mr. Carew his opinion of my mistress, they left for England, as I have told you."

"Yes," I remarked, "and he may, after all, have been mistaken."

She shrank a little, I fancied, but she said firmly, "He may have been, I was not."

"I am not doubting you, Mrs. Fortress," I said.

She interposed here by saying, "It is immaterial whether you are or not. The facts are as I have stated them."

"I understand, of course, that you have spoken honestly, but is it not possible you may have judged wrongly?"

"I cannot admit it, sir," she replied with calm dignity. "It is not possible."

Certainly she maintained her ground. I continued my inquiry.

"Before Mr. Carew came into his second fortune he lived humbly in London?"

"Yes; in poor lodgings."

"Did the house contain other lodgers?"

"Yes."

"And did not any of them suspect or discover the mystery so close to them?"

"In my belief not another person in the house had any suspicion."

"You lived for many years in Rosemullion?"

"Yes."

"Did not Mrs. Carew have a medical adviser?"

"A doctor called and saw her from time to time."

"Was he not aware of her condition?"

"He was not. His visits were a mere matter of form, and he frequently called at the house without seeing my mistress."

"By whose directions was she denied to him?"

"By mine. It was part of my duty to preserve my master's secret."

"I am sure you did your duty, Mrs. Fortress."

Her lip curled. She did not thank me.

"Did this doctor ever see Mrs. Carew alone?"

"Never. I took care always to be present, and I always prepared my mistress for his visits, warning her to be careful."

"Did she never rebel?"

"With respect to the doctor, never. I had my difficult days with her, but that was my business, and mine alone."

"He must have been a careful and conscientious man," I said somewhat sarcastically.

She capped me by replying, "His accounts were regularly paid. Perhaps that was sufficient for him."

"Perhaps," I said, and I could not avoid a smile, though I was really indignant. "Can you tell me anything more to guide me? Do you think it was Mr. Carew's intention to keep his son in complete ignorance of this misfortune, even after the death of your mistress?"

"I am not positive. My master died during a visit to Wales, while my mistress was still living. It is probable, had he survived his wife, that he would have spoken to his son on the subject. I cannot say for certain, but, from certain words he once used I believe he left some record behind him."

This suggestion aroused me.

"Some written record?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Where would he have deposited it?"

"In Rosemullion my master had his private room, into which no one was allowed to enter. There are large safes built in the walls of that room. If the record I believe my master made is found anywhere, it will be in that room. I have nothing more to say, sir. I have told you all I know. Whether you believe me or not does not concern me. When you see Mr. Gabriel, sir, give him my humble duty."

XVII.

I returned to Rosemullion in a very disturbed frame of mind. The nearer I approached the abode of mystery the stronger grew my doubts of the truth of Mrs. Fortress's statement. All she had related was in such complete accordance with a cunningly carried out scheme, whereby the innocent were made to suffer, and she--the plotter--made comfortable for life, that I accused myself for my egregious folly in giving her story credence, and listening to it patiently. It was, however, impossible to allow the matter to stand as Mrs. Fortress had left it. Some further inquiry must take place, and my doubts cleared up before I would give my consent to the union of my son with Gabriel Carew's daughter. I did not dare to run a risk so great until my mind was fairly at ease. It was a relief to me when I reached my home that Reginald was not there to greet me. I knew what the tenor of his conversation would be, and I wished to avoid it. He had, indeed, but one theme: Mildred; his heart and soul were meshed in his absorbing love for the fair girl to whom there was a likelihood of a most terrible inheritance having been transmitted.

I proceeded without delay to Rosemullion, and the first person who greeted me on the threshold was Mrs. Carew. She expressed her satisfaction at my return, and upon my inquiring for her husband, said that he was in his study, but that before I saw him she wished to have a few private words with me. It was then that I noted signs of trouble in her face. She led me to the apartment which Gabriel Carew had described as a sanctuary of rest, and at her bidding I sat down and awaited the communication she desired to make to me.

She commenced by saying that her husband had such complete confidence in me and she such faith in my wisdom, that, having a weight at her heart which was sorely disturbing her, she had resolved to ask my advice, as a friend upon whom she could rely. I replied that her faith and her husband's confidence were not misplaced, and that it was my earnest wish to assist her if it lay in my power.

"It is not without my husband's permission," she said, "that I am speaking to you now. He knows that I am uneasy about him, and he himself suggested that I should consult you upon your return from Cornwall."

I was startled at learning that she was not ignorant of my visit to Mrs. Fortress; I imagined that the affair was entirely between me and Mr. Carew. I asked her if she was acquainted with the precise object of my visit.

"No," she replied; "only that you have been on a visit to a nurse who was in the service of my husband's family before the death of his parents. I did not seek for further information, and my husband did not volunteer any. Neither is he acquainted with the details of the matter I am about to open to you. I thought it best to keep it from him until I obtained counsel from a near and dear friend."

I inclined my head, and she continued:

"My husband informs me that he has related to you the fullest particulars of his life, and that he has unbosomed himself to you with an unreserved confidence, such as no other person in the world has been able to inspire."

"It is true," I said, "and I hold his confidence sacred, to be used only for our good."

"And for the good of our children," she said.

"Yes," I said, conscious of a strange note in my voice as I repeated the words, "and for the good of our children."

She detected the unusual note, gazed steadily at me for a moment, and proceeded, without commenting upon it.

"Knowing so much, you are familiar with my husband's nightly wanderings in the woods when he resided here with his parents?"

"Yes."

"He was aware of these nocturnal rambles?" she said. "He undertook them consciously?"

"Certainly."

"He was always awake when he left the house and returned to it?"

"Always," I replied, surprised at the question.

"He has given me full permission to put any questions to you with respect to the confidence he has reposed in you. 'If I have kept anything from you,' he said to me this morning, 'it has been done to save you from uneasiness;' and he added with a smile that he had concealed nothing from me for which he had reason to reproach himself. Certain habits, contracted during a lonely youth, had left their impress upon him, and unusual as they were, there was no harm in them. 'Of one thing be sure,' he said; 'I have lived a pure and blameless life.' I did not need his assurance to convince me of that. As Reginald's father, you should be glad to know it."

"I am glad to know it," I said, and again I was aware of the strange note in my voice, "as Reginald's father and your husband's friend."

"I will explain," she said, "why I asked you whether my husband had any reason to believe that occasionally he walked abroad at night when he was not awake. He has done so for some years past at certain times and under certain circumstances. He did so last night."

"Is he not now aware of it?" I inquired.

"No, I have never informed him that he is a sleep-walker. My reason for keeping this knowledge from him is that I am convinced it would have greatly distressed him; but what occurred last night has so disturbed me that I can no longer be silent."

My suspicions of the truth of Mrs. Fortress's statement began to fade. Here was confirmation that the son had inherited one phase, at least, of his mother's disease.

"You remarked," I said, "that Mr. Carew has walked in his sleep for some years past at certain times and in certain circumstances. Were these circumstances of a special nature?"

"Yes--and all of one complexion; when something was known from which he feared danger."

"To himself?"

"I think not. To me and Mildred. I recall three occasions, which will supply you with an index to the whole. Once there were reports in the papers of a number of burglaries being committed in the neighbourhood, accompanied by deeds of violence. The burglars--there were three, as was subsequently proved--were at liberty, and the efforts made to discover and arrest them met with no success for several weeks. During that period my husband rose regularly every night from bed, dressed himself, and went out of the house, always returning, dressed as he left the room. On one of these occasions I followed and watched him, and discovered that his aim was to guard us from danger. He remained in the grounds around the house, holding a pistol. His actions were those of an earnest, watchful guardian, and were guided by the most singular caution. Sometimes he would hide behind a tree, or crouch down, concealed from view. When he was satisfied that there was no longer any danger, he returned to the house, stepping very softly, and examining the fastenings of the doors and windows."

"Did he rise in the morning with the appearance of a man who had passed a disturbed night?"

"No; he was always cheerful, and appeared to be quite refreshed by what he believed to be a good night's rest. At length, when the burglars were arrested he left the house no more for many months, until a workman whom he had employed, and whom he had reason to discharge, uttered threats against us. Then he again commenced his nightly watch, which did not cease until he received information that the man had left the country. After that he enjoyed a long period of repose. The third occasion was when there was a report of the escape of a dangerous madman from a lunatic asylum three or four miles from Rosemullion. Until this man was once more in safe custody, my husband never missed a night's watch during his sleep. You will gather from this explanation that he was always actuated by a good motive--to guard and protect those whom he loves."

"That seems clear," I said, "and what you have related is especially interesting to me as a specialist, apart from my sincere friendship for you and yours."

"As a specialist!" she exclaimed. "Of what kind?"

Fortunately I arrested myself in time. The words which immediately suggested themselves to me in reply, remained unspoken. The truth would have been too great a shock to this sweet lady.

"As one deeply interested," I answered, with an assuring smile, "in psychological mysteries. What occurred yesterday to excite Mr. Carew?"

"He and I had been out riding. Upon our return one of our gardeners informed my husband that a man had been seen lurking about the grounds. The story told by the gardener is this: The stranger, a foreigner, although he spoke good English, did not wait to be accosted by the gardener, but himself opened a conversation. He asked if this was Rosemullion. Yes. Did a family of the name of Carew live here? Yes. Was Mrs. Carew alive? Yes. Was Mr. Carew alive? Yes. Did they have any family? Yes, a daughter. What was her name? Miss Mildred. Could he see Mrs. Carew? Mrs. Carew was out driving. When would I return, and was there any possibility of the stranger seeing me alone? The gardener could not say. It was not I, but my husband who put these questions to the gardener. Then Mr. Carew asked sternly what was the bribe that induced the gardener to answer the inquiries of a stranger, and he forced the truth from him. The stranger had given the gardener a foreign coin, which my husband insisted upon seeing. It was a piece of French money. This part of the affair is completed by the admission of the gardener that the stranger was apparently in poverty, as his poor clothes betokened--and yet he had given the gardener money to answer his questions! When the gardener was gone my husband said that the circumstance was very suspicious, and I thought so myself; that the stranger had some bad motive in thus intruding upon private property, and that he would go in search of him. I asked to be allowed to accompany him, and after a slight hesitation he consented, saying if the stranger came with innocent intent and we met him, that he could say what he had to say to me in my husband's presence. We strolled all round the grounds of Rosemullion, but saw no stranger. Then my husband said he would go into the woods, and that I had better leave him; but I, fearing I knew not what, begged to be allowed to remain with him. Together we went into the woods, and for a long while met no person answering the description given by the gardener; but after a while we saw a stranger a few yards in front of us. It happened that I was a little ahead of my husband at that moment, and the stranger, turning and seeing me, thought that I was alone. He was about to hasten towards me when my husband stepped to my side. Without hesitation the stranger abruptly turned from us, and, plunging into the woods, was immediately lost to view."

Something in Mrs. Carew's manner at this point--which I should find it difficult to explain--some premonition that this man she called a stranger was really not so to her--caused me to ask,

"You saw his face?"

"Yes." And at this answer, tremblingly spoken, my premonition became a certainty.

"You recognised it?"

"Unless I am much mistaken--and with all my heart I pray to heaven I may be!--it was a face once familiar to me."

It was not now for me to pursue the subject; it was for her to confide freely in me, if such was her desire. There was a silence of a few moments before she resumed:

"My husband, having hidden nothing from you, has told you all that occurred in my dear native village, Nerac, before we were married?"

"He has told me all, I believe," I said.

"Of my beloved parents--of friends once dear to me--Eric, murdered, and the unhappy Emilius?"

"I am acquainted with all the particulars of that tragic event."

"Sadly changed, worn, haggard, and travel-stained, in the man we met in the forest I recognised Emilius."

XVIII.

This, indeed, was startling news. Emilius alive, his term of imprisonment over, or he an escaped convict, seeking an interview with Mrs. Carew, the wife of the man whom he regarded as his bitterest enemy! To what was this to lead?--in what way was it to end?

"Did Mr. Carew recognise him?" I asked.

"I cannot tell you," replied Mrs. Carew. "Not a word passed between us respecting him. _I_ did not dare to speak. It would but have been to reopen old wounds, and after all I may have been mistaken. Not for me to bring back to my husband the memories of a past in which he was so cruelly misjudged. Besides, this was the one and only subject upon which my husband and I were not in harmony. He most firmly believed and believes in Emilius's guilt; I as firmly believed and believe in his innocence. The years that have flown have not softened my husband's judgment nor hardened mine; and until this hour the name of Emilius has never passed my lips since we settled in Rosemullion. No, it was not for me to utter it in my husband s presence; it was not for me to bring pain to his kind heart. I said nothing, nor did my husband, nor did he attempt to follow the stranger. In silence we walked back to the house, and the evening passed as usual. Reginald came, and we had music and conversation. On the part of Mildred and your son converse was cheerful and unconstrained, and I also strove to be cheerful. I was so far successful as to deceive the children, but my husband was not so easily blinded. And yet he made no allusion to the subject which engrossed my thoughts, and weighed like a dark cloud upon my heart. The hour grew late, and I sent Reginald home. Young people in love have always to be reminded. Then my husband and I retired to rest. Troubled as I was, sleep was long in coming to me, but at length Nature was merciful, and I sank into slumber. I awoke at the soft chiming of our silver clock, proclaiming the hour of two. Never do I remember being awoke by the chiming of this clock, so low and sweet is it; and that I should awake now as it struck two may have been simply a coincidence. I sat up in bed. I was alone. My husband was not in the room; his clothes were gone, and he had doubtless gone out fully dressed. In great fear I rose and dressed, with the intention of following him, but when I tried the door I found it had been locked on the outside. Powerless to do anything but wait, I sat, trembling, till daylight began to peep in at the windows. Then I heard my husband's footsteps in the passage, which would not have reached my ears had not my senses been preternaturally sharpened. He trod softly, and turned the key in the door very gently in order not to disturb me. He entered the room, and I almost fainted as I saw in his hand the bright blade of an ancient dagger which usually lay upon his study table. His face was turned towards me, his eyes were open, but he did not see me. He took from his pocket a sheath, in which he placed the dagger, and then he undressed. Before he lay down to that more healthful sleep in which his mind would be at rest, he listened two or three times at the locked door, and going to the window, drew the blind a little aside and looked from the window. Then he stretched himself in bed, and his eyes closed. Not by the least sign did he show any consciousness of the fact that I was standing, dressed, in the room, and that we were often face to face. I soon retired to bed, but I slept no more. I lay awake, listening to my husband's breathing, praying for the hour to arrive at which we generally rose for the day--praying for that, praying that the night would not come again, praying for a friend to counsel me. It were vain for me to disguise from you that I am in dread of what may happen should my husband and Emilius meet. And there is still something more----"

I waited, but she left the sentence uncompleted. Startled as I was by what I had heard, I was even more startled to see this good and gentle woman suddenly cover her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of tears. I turned from her in commiseration, powerless to relieve or console her. Even had I words at command, it was better that her grief should be allowed to spend itself naturally. When she had recovered, I asked,

"Has Mr. Carew made any reference to what passed in the night?"

"Not any," she replied.

"Did you?"

"I simply asked him if he had slept well, and he answered 'Yes,' and that his sleep had been dreamless."

"Will you pardon me for the question whether you believe that to be really so--whether his answer to your solicitous inquiry was not prompted by his desire not to trouble or distress you?"

"I am certain," said Mrs. Carew, "that my husband said what he believes to be true. Dear friend, what am I to do?"

She seized my hand, and clung to it as though to me, and to me alone, could she look for help in her sad position.

"Does Mildred know anything, suspect anything?" I asked.

What was the meaning of the timid, frightened, helpless look in her eyes at the mention of Mildred's name? No mental efforts of mine could fathom it.

"Nothing," she replied, and then seemed to drift, against her will as it were, into distressful thought. I devoted a few moments to consideration, and when I spoke again had resolved upon a course of action.

"Would you wish me to become your guest for a few days?" I asked.

"Ah, if you would!" she exclaimed.

"I shall be willing if Mr. Carew has no objection. I will see him presently and ascertain. But first I have a little scheme to carry out which I think advisable for all our sakes."

I asked her if I could write a letter in her room, and despatch it at once to my house, and she opened her desk for me. My letter was to my son Reginald, and the effect of it was to secure his absence from Rosemullion during my stay in Mr. Carew's house. There was really a matter of business which Reginald could attend to, and which rendered it necessary for him to take his immediate departure for London. When my letter was written, I explained its purport to Mrs. Carew, and she acquiesced in the wisdom of my plan. She herself added a few words to the letter, to the effect that she regretted not being able to see him before he left, and that Mildred was well and sent her love. She gave me a flower, and asked me to enclose it in the envelope.

"He will think it comes from Mildred," she said, "and it will send him away happy. It is an innocent deceit."

The letter was despatched, and with a few assuring words to the sweet woman, I went to her husband's study.

XIX.